The Dust of Time
Summary: Will struggles with his conscience, while struggling with the Darkest threat he's come up against so far - his own family's memories. Will/Bran Slash.
Disclaimer: "The Dark is Rising Sequence" does not belong to me, it belongs to Susan Cooper, the amazing Goddess that she is. This is written by a fan, for the fans, and no money has exchanged hands what-so-ever.
Part Five: Revelations
Doubtless, sleeper, you're sleeping:
perhaps, dead one, you're dead.
Pablo Neruda
"I don't know, I really don't know."
Will was curled up, tight, and Bran felt dizzy, too dizzy, at the sight. Blood was seeping through the snow, painting it a too-bright red, and that's when Bran knew it was real. Blood always looked too bright when it was real.
"Think," Bran pleaded, blocking out the shrieking and gasping and flurrying of Will's worried family. Unconsciously he stepped forward and took Will's other hand in his own, turning it over, despairing at the sudden, hot temperature of Will's skin.
"Must have been hit at the exact moment of moving backwards," Will said, the words slurring together, and Bran knew it was the fever talking.
"What hit you Will?" Alice asked, but Bran roughly moved his hand to Will's chin, making Will focus on him.
Will's blue-green eyes dull, they're too dull! slowly trained on his own. "The hill. Get me to the hill with the white..." Will pulled his arm out of Bran's grasp, and jerked in the direction of a hill past their small barn. "There. There's doors there-" Bran looked at him, unconvinced, "secret ones. Just get me to the hill." Will strained against the hands pressing him down.
"Are you sure. Will, are you sure?" Bran's voice was fierce as he held Will's unfocussed stare.
"Nn.. yes. Yes."
Bran jerked his head upwards and locked gazes with Stephen, who looked grim but determined, and pushing the family out of the way, Bran picked Will up, cradling him in his arms, and they began to run.
Later, he would not know where he found the strength, but find it he did. His heart pumping fast, but only in fear for Will's life, Bran's only thought was to get to the hill. He was being shouted at, and jostled, and he was vaguely aware of Stephen taking Will from him when he stumbled, and his heart screaming please let him be coherent enough for this-whatever this is- to work.
And when they got to the hills, there wasn't anything in sight.
"There's nothing here!" Bran howled, turning to Stephen, faintly registering the rest of the Stantons and the Drews skidding up the hill after them.
Will lifted his head limply from Stephen's shoulder, where it had lolled, and faintly said: "Look again."
Bran looked, and almost stumbled back in sheer surprise at the large doors that were towering over him, arched and intricately carved. He put out a hand to push it, sceptical that it would open for him as they looked too heavy, but his palm didn't connect with the door – it fell away from him as if by magic. Which it probably is, Bran thought suddenly, before brushing the thought aside, and carelessly charging forwards into the darkness the door revealed, trusting Will not to have lead them somewhere dangerous.
He could feel rather than see Stephen, still clutching Will, follow right behind him, and the tentative footsteps of the others clattered behind them, but he forged ahead regardless of the terror that vaguely tried to clutch at his heart, the fear of they know, and they shouldn't being overwhelmed by his heart yelling in the pounding in his ears, please, Will, don't die, don't die, if you die, I'll-
Light suddenly flooded the area as Bran took one more step forward, and he blinked, his eyes adjusting. It was a large hall; pillars streaking upwards to a high, curved ceiling that Bran was willing to bet was as intricately carved as the doors that had appeared on the hillside. Over to one side was an empty fireplace, next to that, three doors with thick curtains drawn over, and beyond those, a glint of something on the floor that Bran couldn't quite make out. Beyond that, the hall fell into darkness, and could quite possibly go on forever.
Bran turned to Stephen, and barely heard Will's next gasping words amongst the gasps and confusion from the Stantons and the Drews at the strangeness of the hall. He heard enough. "…water… need… put me in it…"
The word water made one fact, at least, slip comfortably into place. The glint on the floor was the glint of light reflecting from water. Bran looked over to it, and Stephen quickly followed his gaze and came to the same conclusion. With a brief nod, the two ran forwards, and lowered Will to the ground. Will weakly pulled at his torn shirt, and Bran understood enough. He helped him peel off the sodden garment, in a move that would have made him blush profusely in any other circumstance, and then he helped Stephen lower Will into the water.
Will cried out as the water hit the open wound, and Bran jerked to pull him out again, but Will shook his head. Bran stepped down into the water with him, and supported his neck, keeping his head out as he tread water, unsure of how deep the pool was. The water around the wound started to steam, and Bran could barely bring himself to look at Will's chest, the blood sickening him, or, rather, the idea of Will being hurt so badly turning his stomach.
Stephen slid quickly into the water, treading water too, to support Will's feet and allow the water more complete access to the wound. Both had gone in regardless of the strange steam rushing from Will's chest to drift soundlessly on the long journey up to the ceiling, a fact Bran only just registered, but pushed away to concentrate on Will. Will's face was drawn, and coated in sweat.
After a minute that could have been months, Will finally gasped, "Enough", and without looking at each other, Bran and Stephen dragged Will out of the water and lay him on the side. Bran didn't move from Will's shoulders, and knelt by the weird pool, pulling Will up to rest against him. He adjusted Will so he was sat up against him, as Will was breathing too hard to do it for himself, and was surprised to notice two things. One, his clothes and hair were completely dry, even though he'd been mostly submerged in the water, and two, Will wasn't hurt anymore. His skin was pale, as if it had never been marked, and Bran had to resist the urge to drift his fingers along the healed skin as if to reassure himself that Will was okay, still all there.
"Oh, my god," Stephen breathed, and didn't resist the urge – he touched Will's chest gently, appraisingly, and Bran flushed, realising he wouldn't have been quite so clinical about it. Stephen looked at the water, and back at Will. "Is this an Old One thing, or…?"
Will smiled ruefully, and it was a smile Bran had seen on Will before, but had disliked. There was absolutely no humour in the smile. Bran privately thought it betrayed the whole concept of smiling, and vowed to take Will to task for it. Later. When Will was better, and the world was running chronologically again.
"The water's from the end of Atlantis," Will said. "Boiled by the destruction of the heart of the world."
Bran shivered at the finality of the tone, and the creepiness of the words. "Whatever it is," he said simply, "I'm glad of it."
"And it's an Old One thing," Will said, pulling a face, "more's the pity." A look of sadness flickered across Will's face, and was gone, but Bran saw it long enough to understand. The lives I could save otherwise, Will's face had said, and Bran's heart ached.
"What's going on?"
Bran and Stephen turned their heads at the sound of Roger Stanton's voice, frightened into an almost feminine high pitch, but Will didn't turn his head. He kept looking straight ahead, casually, as he climbed to his feet as easily as if he hadn't been horribly injured only minutes before. Bran climbed up awkwardly at the same time, brushing imaginary dirt from his knees as he did.
Will tensed, and twitched, and then turned to face his family, his eyes cold and his face tilted upwards. Then his courage fell, and he looked away, and then he looked back again at them, amassed like a band of carol singers, faces lit weirdly by the otherworldly light that illuminated the hall. He sighed, then shivered, and then absently lifted one arm towards the empty fireplace.
The fireplace spluttered into life, orange flames licking up and bathing everyone in a more normal light. Will inhaled, and then exhaled slowly, a dark and very old look on his face.
Bran stepped forward then, and touched Will on the wrist, a gesture Stephen acknowledged and the others missed in their stupor of disbelief. The touch seemed to shake Will out of his confoundedness, and he smiled awkwardly, spreading his hands, and a younger look took hold of his face. "Maybe," Will said, feeling ill at ease, as he fixed a look on his parents, "you'd all better sit down."
Stephen took the lead, sitting cross-legged on the dark floor, his face registering surprise as he did. "The ground's soft," he exclaimed, which surprised the others into trying it out. Only Bran remained on his feet, wanting to support Will, and Will sent him a small nod of gratefulness.
"This might take a while to explain," Will said, starting to pace, "but time's not the issue. In fact, time is something we're about to have an awful lot of if I can't figure this out."
He stared at his family, perplexed, and awkward, and inhaled and exhaled again.
"Will," spluttered Alice Stanton, her gentle face haunted with a grey cast, obviously having just regained the ability and composure to speak, "what are you?"
Will winced at that, and Bran understood the wince. It was the use of the word what. What implied that Will wasn't human, was an 'it', a monster, an item, a creation, not a human.
"I'm an Old One," Will said, staring at her. "The last of the Old Ones, if you must be pedantic about it. Watchman of the Light. All the stories you never told me. True."
Alice blinked, shaking her head, and said, "So if you're…" She floundered for the word, gestured, and then obviously decided the gesture was enough. "Then who's he?"
It took Bran a few moments to realise that Alice was looking at him, and he looked at Will in confusion. "I'm no one," Bran started, his voice cracking, and then faltering into silence as he saw the guilty expression on Will's face. "Aren't I?" He finished, his voice quiet, his eyes locked with Will's. Will shook his head so imperceptibly that Bran's legs waned beneath him, and he had to suddenly fight to stay upright.
"I never meant to do this," Will said, suddenly despairing, somehow looking anywhere but at Bran, but also looking directly at him. Bran knew Will was hurting, but couldn't stop commanding, "Tell me."
'I'm sorry,' Will mouthed, before turning back to his mother.
"He's King Arthur's son. The Pendragon. My greatest charge."
Bran swallowed. It tasted of betrayal.
"I wanted to tell you," Will said, ostensibly to his family and friends, but Bran knew the truth – it was directed at him. He let his legs fail, and sank to the ground, the words rolling around in his head. King Arthur's son. Pendragon. And, most sharply, My greatest charge.
"King Arthur-" Laughing, Simon Drew got to his feet, his expression callous and tone mocking. "I think you've been drinking too much happy juice. Nice joke, guys, lovely special effects, but if you think we're going to believe this-"
"Simon," Barney said suddenly, his small face pinched, and his voice clear. "It's true. It's all true. Don't you remember?" Barney got to his feet, and started to pace. "Gumerry, and the Light and the Dark, and Will…" Barney looked at Will, suddenly upset, miserable. "And you made us forget."
"It's for the best," Will said. "Forgetting."
"The best for who," Bran said. He knew his voice was harsh, but he couldn't bring himself to tone it down.
Will turned to him, angry. "If you're insinuating it would be best for me, you're sorely mistaken, Pendragon."
Bran got up, incensed, and crossed the floor to him, trying to ignore the disorientation that plagued his skin as the floor changed for his senses from the softness to sit on, to the hardness to walk on. "Then make us remember what we've forgotten," he said, an arrogance to his tone beyond his normal slightly overconfident edge.
"Like it's that easy," Will muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear, but he crossed the floor to the three doors, and then stood in front of them, perplexed.
"What's the matter?" Barney said, hurrying over to stand by Will, his eyes keenly glancing between the three doors. Barney's comfortableness with going over to Will was contagious; everyone got to his or her feet after him, to glance at the doors.
Will shuffled for a second, and then looked at Barney wryly.
"I may not know what's going on," Jane said, unsteadily, "but I know that face." She smiled a little. "He's forgotten."
Along with the arrogance and confusion conflicting within Bran, annoyance slid up unwillingly at her utterance. He knew that expression too, just as well as her, and if she thought she knew him better than her, she was wrong, and just in that moment, that exact moment, at that cross reaction to Jane's words, he realised just what was making him so cross at Will.
It wasn't the fact that Will had told him he was King Arthur's son. Bran, in a strange, light-headed sort of way, hadn't been as entirely surprised as he thought he should have. Will had warned him that he'd forgotten something large, and just as adamantly told Bran he wouldn't make him forget anything again.
No. Who Bran was really mad at was himself. And he had only just realised why.
He was only sodding in love with the git.
In love with Will, his brain corrected, and he brushed aside the correction. And not 'soddingly' so, although there's another word beginning with 'sod' that you've been curious about for a long time now, if you're going to be absolutely honest with yourself.
Bran quietly began to freak out as all the fragments in his brain clicked together. His blush at seeing Barney's artwork of them snuggled up in bed together. The familiar touches between them. And the strange way his insides had collapsed at eavesdropping on Will and Jane's conversation, and that tight confession of Will's, By my troth, it is no addition to his wit, nor no great argument of his folly, for I will be horribly in love with him.
Bran hadn't known what to think about hearing that, and hadn't quite been able to think since, a fact he knew he was never going to admit to Will, because it would open him up to a lifetime of teasing.
For I will be horribly in love with him.
With a realisation that felt like burning, Bran suddenly knew, knew without Will having to tell him, that that was why Will had been crying when they were in bed together. Brain, he admonished himself sharply, do not start trying to illustrate that thought beyond the truth. Will had been upset, and Bran had held him for a long time, his hands soft against the warmth of Will's skin, and the flutter of Will's heartbeat, and that must have been the moment Will realised he was in love with him, with him, and…
Oh, bloody hell, you've sodding been in love with him for longer than today, Bran realised in disgust, and then forced himself to admit the real truth. The one he'd never admitted to his conscious self, the truth his subconscious kept hidden in the flutter of fragmentary dreams and memories. Will's the reason you even went to the same university and enrolled on the same course.
Now, of course, Bran was even more annoyed, but now mostly at himself. Not that he was going to admit it.
"No," Will was indignantly saying, in a tone Bran knew acutely meant that Will was lying, and then he wondered at his ability to accurately understand every tone of Will's voice, and then he pushed those thoughts aside. "I know roughly where they are. And they should remove all forgotten memories…"
Bran forced himself to stop wallowing, and dwell on it all later, and tried to ignore that last buzzing thought. You were mad when you overheard Will's confession, not because he hadn't told you, although that was part of it, but because he said it was horrible to be in love with you.
"All right, Will," Roger Stanton said firmly, moving forwards to grab his youngest son's arm, "Joke's over. And it hasn't been funny one bit, but I realise you'd want your fun on your birthday, so we're willing to overlook this prank-"
"Got it," Will said, interrupting his father, sliding forward and opening the second door.
Bran couldn't wallow any more, as his brain was too busy admiring the sight, and not, for once, ogling Will's backside, which to be honest is what you do, so you can stop lying about that now too.
The door had opened into deep space.
The sky stretched as far as the eye could see, a thick, velvety blackness that reminded Bran of the thick curtains at his da's church, the heavy ones that almost suffocated Fainche Jones a few Christmases ago when they fell down on her. Spots of light broke up the thick blackness that was almost too black to look at, burning in the shorter end of the spectrum, and lower down…
Bran's voice caught in his throat, and he gasped out a startled sound that didn't make any sense.
Lower down, a different light glowed, a hazy mess of greens and blues, and Bran blinked away tears that came from seemingly nowhere. Iesu Grist, he thought suddenly, so fast that he couldn't tear back the words. He was vaguely ashamed he'd sworn so much over the last couple of days, but even that shame was insignificant
It was the Earth itself, turning inexorably slowly in front of them, millions, billions of life forms teaming across the planet, unaware of anything, unaware of everything, unaware of the strangely silent people watching them from a magic door on the hillside of rural Buckinghamshire.
"Will," Alice Stanton said, and she was crying openly.
"There are compensations," Will said, brokenly, "for the burden of my task." He said nothing else, just watched his family and friends get lost in the sight before him, and the sight of Will just stood there, watching his family watching the Earth broke the trance Bran was under, and he stepped forward.
With a calmness that held him upright and strong, Bran touched Will gently on the arm. He gazed up at Will, even though they were the same height, somehow Will was taller in this place, and then, as if it was the most natural thing in all the universe, he leaned up, and touched his mouth to Will's.
The kiss was short, not because Bran didn't want anything more, but because his brain hadn't quite caught up with everything that happened, and he didn't want to get even more confused. It was a promise, and he held Will's gaze as he pulled back, a content smile spreading on Bran's face. Bran squeezed Will's hand, and stepped back, nodding to encourage Will on.
Will nodded back, an expression on his face that Bran couldn't quite decipher at first, until he realised he'd seen it before on Will, a thousand, million times, just briefly every time, but there. Definable. Love. Theirs.
Giddy, but pushing it down, Bran jerked his head at the open door. Will nodded again, and composed his face into a more business-like expression. He reached his hand out into the blackness, and he spoke something in a soft language that sounded almost like Latin and Welsh mixed together, but wasn't, it was harsher but softer all at the same time, and it sang in Bran's heart that a refrain he should know so well.
A small soft feathery light splashed around Will's hand suddenly, illuminated Will's face with a bright white glow. Will turned, almost giddy himself with the glow, and looked directly at Bran. "I promised never to remove your memories again, Bran Pendragon," Will shouted, and Bran wondered why he was shouting until he realised that there was a song sounding in the hall, a song deep and brilliant and millions of years old, and Bran realised it was the universe itself singing, and he thought, this must be how Will sees the universe all the time. "If I release this magic, you won't be able to forget. Are you certain?"
Caught up by the song, by everything, by the lingering fleeting feel of Will's mouth against his own, Bran shouted back, "Yes!"
"So let it be," Will shouted, and released the magic.
A white light engulfed them all then, even brighter than the light of the sun, but Bran couldn't close his eyes. A golden light accompanied it, and a soft cerulean, and a flash of silver. 'My son,' a warm voice rumbled in his ear, and 'with Arthur's son she came out of the past' in a voice he knew more, and some words, like a poem, and then more words, like a riddle. And then he remembered.
The trip into the weird place, Will's world, of mirror mazes, and dead kings, and grey lands, and girls that threw flowers from windows. Of the death of Atlantis, and the forging of a crystal sword. Of a tree, bright on Midsummer's day. He heard himself crying out, "Cafall! Cafall!", and he saw Will's eyes as the first time he saw them, and wondered then if he'd loved Will from the very beginning, despite the resentment in his heart. And then there was more. He remembered the Dark, and for a minute he couldn't breathe, remembering a judgement that almost ended him. He remembered a train journey that transcended time and space, and he remembered magic, and fire on the mountain.
And Will. He remembered Will, just fragments of him, singing on the hill, walking with purpose, trying to bring Bran out of his self-imposed shell, still forging a friendship with Bran despite Bran's hostility towards the person he saw as the reason for Cafall's murder. He remembered their laughing conversations, and their dreamy adventures together, and hated himself for forgetting those times, the times that had made him the person he was today, the adventures that had given him the strength he used now. And he hated himself more when he remembered the choice, of which he took the coward's way out, despite learning Will's fate, his forever fate, to look after the world.
He came out of his stupor crying, crying endlessly, and realised everyone was looking at him. He must have taken the longest – he had more hidden memories, memories hidden by Merlin, Will's enigmatic mentor, who had led Bran into the adventures in the first place, teaching him the lines of a poem on a dreary summer day, on a day before Will arrived in his life and the summer started to blaze.
'Yes,' Bran's heart sang, 'yes.'
And without knowing quite what he was doing, Bran walked forwards, past all the faces lost in their own confusion of remembrances, and held his hand out into the deep velvet of space, and Will cried out as if scared Bran would be hurt by it, but he wasn't.
"Eirias!" Bran cried. "Eirias!"
Bran turned back to Will, a triumphant glow on his face, even as he kept his arm extended into space. Their eyes held, and a blue light engulfed Bran's arm, and when Bran pulled his arm back in, and an invisible gust slammed the door to space shut with a too-loud clunk, there was a sword in his hand.
A crystal sword.
"Eirias," Will breathed, not knowing how Bran had done it, only knowing it was right. Eirias was needed.
"Eirias is the sword," Jane said, her voice fluttering in joy over the returned memory. "Oh, Bran."
Bran turned to her, the sword shimmering in his grip, and then turned back to Will, his head lifted even higher. He vaguely realised Will and he were the same height again.
"My lord?" Will said, his voice ghosting and reverent as he looked at Bran.
Bran looked at him. "This time loop could go on forever. But we're ending it," he said, his voice unwavering, "this time. And we're going to destroy the Dark forever." His eyes glinted with the memory of a regained conversation. "And ever."
Will didn't need to nod in agreement. His tone spoke it all. "Your will is my command." Then he smiled, and suddenly they were just Will and Bran again, best friends. Teenagers. "Let's go kick some Dark behinds."
Bran grinned, and hefted Eirias. "Amen!"
Will grinned back, and Bran slid Eirias into the hilt that he hadn't realised had materialised on regaining Eirias, but had still somehow known was there. They were going to kick some Dark butt, save the beautiful universe they'd all just witnessed, and then… then Bran was going to get down to the serious business.
Just why Will thought being in love with him was horrible.
